42 S. Deacon St. #5

There are at least fifty things about her you cannot stand. Maybe a thousand:

She is soft and smells nice. Talks on the phone all day. Makes your favorite meals without being asked. Throws your Maxim magazines on the floor when she’s angry with you. Is sad when an animal gets hurt. Loses your car keys. Asks your opinion and listens to your response as if it matters. There’s more.

That one time: the time you were an asshole and made her cry. You knew your words hurt her—her face never conceals emotion (another thing about her you cannot stand). Then she punched you right in the penis bone; a solid uppercut with a lot of follow through. She really put her knees and back into it. That’s when you remembered you hated her kickboxing classes and all of those softball games, too.

You are certain she has never understood the innermost you. She does not appreciate what you do for her—like making it possible for her to tell people she is with you. When you yell at her or mock her it’s not personal, you are simply sharing your feelings. Dumbass bitch.

She is self-conscious about her breasts. Too small, shaped funny, pointed towards the wrong compass points, whatever. What are you talking about, you’d say, they’re fine. Perfect. She consulted a plastic surgeon about a boob job. The doctor examined her, shook his head, buttoned up her shirt, and kissed her hand. Without speaking, he strode out of his office and never practiced again. She started wearing sweaters two sizes larger.

A year and a month ago, she walked down the limestone steps and past her car, and kept going up the street. You stood in the doorway and watched her until she turned on Hudson Avenue by the Walgreens. Lately you are starting to think she is not coming back. Her stuff is still all around the apartment, pretty much as she left it. You think it is, but you’re not sure. You don’t remember what is hers and what is yours.

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